


Dear Mrs. Tyrell

by princessofthorns



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 1960s, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Inspired by The Crown (TV), Politics, Rivalry, Royalty, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:01:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28791393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessofthorns/pseuds/princessofthorns
Summary: The Queen in the North is deemed to be the most cherished and extolled woman in the world; that is what she has heard for about a decade of her life.When the same world's attention is wholly caught by the ever so glamorous and charismatic First Lady of the Reach, Queen Sansa decides she ought to do something about it.
Relationships: Sansa Stark/Margaery Tyrell
Comments: 33
Kudos: 114





	Dear Mrs. Tyrell

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by “Dear Mrs. Kennedy”, episode 2x08 of Netflix’s The Crown. Here is a [photoset](https://bachianinhaone.tumblr.com/post/634774819741827072/dear-mrs-tyrell-sansamargaery-the-crown-au-the) for it.
> 
> I will continue this!

_“We are gathered here today, not as Thenns, or Nightrunners, or Hornfoots. We are here as the free folk._ _And we are done. Done with being humiliated, and belittled. Under the control of an imperial structure that once built a wall to separate us and that now treat us as subordinates. A monarchy that disrespects us, disregards our culture, our costumes, and our history. It’s time for new leadership. A new alliance. A new Land Beyond the Wall. Free from all ties with the North.”_

Mance Rayder’s mouth was opened in the black and white picture, his right arm raised in a gesture of resistance. A battle cry.

Sansa sighed, rubbing her temple after finishing her reading of Rayder’s manifest. It had been fully transcribed on _T_ _he Daily Crow_ , and she’d known it would give her a headache from the moment she’d had her copy in hand.

“What is it, darling?”, she heard the Queen Mother’s voice coming from where she was sitting, on one of the couches of the television room.

She took a seat next to her mother and handed her the paper.

“These wildlings are never satisfied with anything,” Catelyn said after a glance at the first page. “Back when your ancestor Brandon built the wall, they begged and protested against it. After becoming a part of your nation again? There they were, claiming their right to independence. Even now that they have their own parliament, they are still complaining.”

_Your nation._ Twenty-five years as Queen in the North, eleven years as Queen Mother, and Catelyn Tully still insisted to remind that she was foreign.

“My bones can feel it already,” Sansa lamented, leaning back on the sofa. “The stress from how much I’ll have to discuss this matter with Roose Bolton.”

Sansa had been crowned eleven years before, and had been in the presence of three different Prime Ministers since then; Roose Bolton was by far the one she’d disliked the most.

His gelid eyes and his abnormally pale skin, the way he spoke and how he moved. How he had managed to convince the common people to vote for him, she would never know; he was intelligent and resourceful, that was for sure, but he was so… _inhumane_. Not to mention the scandals surrounding his family - the death of his first son and the imprisonment of the second.

“Well, I hope he doesn’t keep you long tomorrow,” her mother pointed out, nodding at the television.

The image in black and white was blurry, but Sansa would have recognized the happy couple anywhere; as would the rest of the world’s population.

Smiling, handsome, and tall Renly Baratheon, newly elected President of the Reach, one of the wealthiest countries in Westeros. And in his arms, of course, who else would it be.

Margaery Tyrell, his wife, whose popularity many claimed to have been one of the key reasons for Renly’s massive win against Randyll Tarly.

Margaery Tyrell, whose charity work and philanthropy were predicted to be recognized by the Baelor Prize at the end of the year.

Margaery Tyrell, who was officially Margaery Baratheon, but was still, casually and even formally, known by her maiden name.

Margaery Tyrell, who very presumably would’ve been on the cover of _T_ _he Daily Crow_ if it hadn’t been for Rayder’s shocking speech. For no reason in specific; merely because she was _always_ on the cover.

“They have been successful on their trip,” Catelyn remarked as the television showed Mr. and Mrs. Baratheon greeting the White Harbor citizens; they had arrived in the city earlier that day. “Even I can’t wait to meet them tomorrow.”

She referred to the informal dinner Sansa would be hosting to receive the President and the First Lady for their first official visit to the North.

“No one in the castle can,” Sansa murmured, at the exact moment the room’s heavy doors were cracked open; even if the yells hadn’t come a second later, Sansa wouldn’t have to look to know who it was - only two people had the permission to barge into wherever the Queen was like that.

“Mommy!”, Princess Catelyn’s sharp voice filled the room as she jumped on her mother’s lap, holding Brandon in her thin arms.

“Hey, baby,” Sansa kissed the crown of her head, feeling the soft scent of blonde hair. “Did you two get tired of playing?”

“Playing with Brandon is boring,” the little girl exclaimed, settling the frowning boy on the carpet.

Sansa laughed, “Your brother is three, Catelyn. Four years ago you were his age and complained whenever the bigger kids wouldn’t want to play with you as well.”

“Don’t let anyone hear you calling the future king boring,” the Queen Mother teased, bringing her grandson into her arms.

“Yes, I’m the king!”, the prince mumbled in his little voice, making the two women smile and the girl roll her eyes.

But Sansa’s grin faltered when her eyes landed back on the television, which now displayed footage of Renly’s and Margaery’s trip to Pentos, where the First Lady had completely charmed the president of the Free Cities by debating the Volantis crisis with him - in fluent High Valyrian.

“They are coming here, aren’t they, Mommy?”, the princess asked, grey eyes staring up at the Queen.

“Yes.”

“Do you know if they are bringing Alysanne?”

“Who is that?”, she questioningly dropped her gaze to the girl.

“Their daughter,” she answered matter-of-factly. “She is nine years old.”

Sansa’s fingers stroked blonde curls. “No, love. They are not taking their daughter with them for their official tour.”

“That’s too bad. I bet Mrs. Tyrell’s daughter is much more fun to play with than your future king.”

  
  


-

  
  


“What is the reason for their hostility to the North now?”

Roose Bolton straightened his back on the chair as if it were feasible to sit even more erect. “They wish to drift from the Northernmost Union, ma’am,” he answered monotonously. “And are seizing the opportunity to fall into other arms.”

“Whose?”

“The Westerlands.” Sansa almost rolled her eyes at his response. “Allegedly, president Tywin Lannister has offered to send his engineers to work on the fall of Wall.”

“I thought Rayder had discussed this matter with the Reach”, Sansa frowned.

“Tywin has interfered, and a possible allegiance with the Land Beyond the Wall is how he intends to step foot in the northern side of the continent, increase his influence and outbid the Reach.”

“Then Renly’s offer must surpass Tywin’s. You should talk to him while he’s in the North,” Sansa advised him.

“I will, ma’am. Having him by our side will be ideal for us in any case. Renly and Mrs. Tyrell are the world’s sensation at the moment,” his strange pale eyes sparkled at her. “The credit should go to her account if you ask me. Brilliant lady, captivating even. Some papers call her the most complete woman in the world.”

Sansa stood up abruptly, and he had no choice other than following her, as it was the protocol to... well, everyone.

“Which reminds me I must cut this short. Lord Harrold and I need to get ready to receive our esteemed guests.”

She rang the bell on the table next to her chair, and Hodor opened the door to escort Roose Bolton out.

“Thank you for another lovely morning, Prime Minister.”

A resemblance of a smirk appeared on his face as he took her hand. “Your Majesty.”

-

A woman helped Sansa get dressed; her gown consisted of an exquisite, long pale grey piece with details in sparkling white. Her husband, Harrold Hardyng, was in the room as well, already dressed in his tuxedo.

He was hardly ever there; as the years went by, Queen Sansa and Lord Hardyng only occasionally shared their rooms at night, and during the days they would meet at the meals and to spend time with the children.

But at that moment, he was determined to make his presence noticeable.

“Did you know she is thirty-five?”

“Who?”

Harry scoffed, _“Who._ Margaery, of course. I only found out about this today, and I was surprised. From her pictures, I thought she was younger than you.”

Sansa hissed, which made her handmaiden think it was something that she’d done. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

Sansa tranquilized her and turned around to face her husband. He was sitting on her vanity table, his blonde hair carefully combed back.

“Are you looking forward to meeting her?”

He shrugged. “Who isn’t?”

She dipped her eyes to her dress. “I guess no one.”

His lips curled into a smirk, a prettier and less wicked version of the one Roose had shot her earlier that day. “Does that bother you?”

She felt the skin of her neck growing warmer. “Why would that bother me?”

“Well, for eleven years now you have been the center of attention. And now-”

“I am no longer the center of attention?”, Sansa sniggered, lifting her dress so the handmaiden could tie her shoes.

“That depends,” he smirked wider. “Today, all that the ever so controlled Queen Mother could talk about was the First Lady. Apparently, she has written down the questions she would like to ask her, regarding all sorts of subjects, from the gown she wore at the presidential inauguration to the lunch she had with Tycho Nestoris, the representative of the Iron Bank.”

He adjusted the strap of Sansa’s dress as he continued, “Harrion Karstark and Greatjon Umber got into a fight over who would sit next to her during dessert, and the Prime Minister has already announced he will be insisting on her presence at his meeting with the President tomorrow, to discuss the matter of the wildlings. Also-”

“That is all only natural,” Sansa interrupted, pushing her long braid to the side and putting her diamond necklace on. “These people see me all the time. Mrs. Tyrell is a guest. She is a novelty, of course she’s their main object of curiosity.”

“Oh, but don’t worry. Tonight, the general public will have its eyes on you too.”

It was the manner he said it that had Sansa’s attention. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t you read the papers?”, his eyes became bored. “They are all eager to see how you will be reacting to her. How the clash between two of the most powerful and beautiful, influential, motherly figures of the world will end up to be,” he gave a small laugh. “Some journalists have even mentioned a so-called competition.”

“She cannot compete with me,” Sansa chuckled. “I have nothing but respect for her, but I am a queen. Therefore any comparison between the two of us is nonsensical.”

She sat on a chair and the handmaiden meticulously placed the shiny tiara on her head; watched out of the corner of her eye the way Harry raised his eyebrow.

“I agree, but that’s not what the public thinks. They look at you and all they see is the image of the two female representatives of their countries.”

“But she is _not_ the representative of her country!”, she exclaimed, standing up. “I am. Daenerys Targaryen,” she pondered in a calmer voice. “I should be compared to _her._ She has royal blood, she is a head of state herself, the Queen of Meeren. It’s reasonable to make a parallel between me and her, but not between me and someone who in four or eight years will no longer be in the position she is right now.”

He smirked again, walking towards the door and silently requesting to take her arm. “I would suggest you remember that, then. To preserve your peace of mind for the rest of the evening.”

-

Mr. President and his wife were late. Fourteen minutes, to be more exact. And Sansa was already impatient; more so, irritated by the fact that no one else seemed to find it impolite. Worse, they seemed to find their delay expected, and _charming._

She had just excused herself from a conversation with Howland Reed. He had gone on and on about how essential it was for the Crown to have a good relationship with the Baratheons as they were a symbol of the modernity the Northern royal family long needed to integrate into its costumes. Sansa would have excused herself earlier if it hadn’t been for the fact that Howland used to be a dear friend of her late father.

But Gods, she could no longer take it. She understood the couple’s appeal to the public eye and, yes, to some extent, to the politicians. But it annoyed her how the Northerners around her seemed to be enchanted by two southerners they had never met before, being as far as willing to accept them being late - as if that weren’t a disrespect towards the greatest sovereign figure in the world, who happened to be their queen.

The far cries of the crowd outside the castle let her know the couple had arrived. She made her way towards her spot; facing the large opened doors of the gigantic dining room. Harrold came to stand by her side, checking his golden hair one last time on the mirror set on one of the walls. 

Taking a quick look around, she was unsurprised to see all her guests restlessly silent, their anticipation palpable. The only one who seemed to lack a general excitement was Princess Arya, who hadn’t even stood up from her seat and quietly tickled a smiling little Brandon, who stood by her chair with his blue eyes curious.

Five minutes later, Sansa puffed up her chest, and Renly and Margaery Baratheon entered the dining room, accompanied by Jory Cassel.

And the air seemed to get stuck in her throat as she took in the vision of Mrs. Tyrell.

She wore a long, stunning dark green gown with golden details that summarized the modernity Mr. Reed had mentioned to Sansa - tight on her chest and her torso and with a cleavage Sansa herself had never worn before.

Except for two heavy strands tied together on the back of her head, Margaery’s hair was down, deliberately tousled brown curls falling over her shoulders. She was also wearing a tiara, a thin, but fancy all the same, golden ornamental band. 

But not even her emerald necklace was a brighter piece of jewelry than the smile she wore; the one Sansa had seen uncountable times before in pictures, the beautiful dimpled smile that reached her eyes and that managed to appear both innocent and malicious.

Next to her, Renly looked nice in his tux.

Mrs. Tyrell seemed to be on a runway as she walked towards them, stopping in front of Sansa and greeting her with a deep, respectful curtsy. “Your Majesty.” _Renly is supposed to be welcomed first,_ Sansa thought to herself.

“Mrs. Baratheon,” Sansa smiled, forgoing the unofficial name and offering her hand.

Margaery didn’t mind, though, bringing Sansa’s hand to her lips and placing the softest kiss on top of it, without taking her piercing eyes off of the Queen. Which almost made Sansa swallow.

She felt the fresh scent of her perfume even as she moved to greet Harry, “Lord Hardyng.”

“Mrs. Tyrell,” her husband shot her his most heavenly smile, kissing the back of her hand longly.

“Your Majesty, it’s an honor to meet you,” Renly saluted with a large smile, kissing her hand - but not curtsying, which Sansa also noted.

“Mr. President, it’s a pleasure.”

And then he did the unthinkable, “Your Majesty,” shaking Harry’s hand, and Sansa swore she heard one or two gasps from behind her.

_He is not a king._

But Harrold expectedly acted like nothing had happened, as did everyone else.

“Please,” Sansa addressed the couple. “Let me introduce you to our Prime Minister.”

She introduced them to the Prime Minister and every other significant living soul in the room, from Mayor Jonelle Cerwyin to Maege Mormont, the governor of Bear Island; from her childhood friend Beth Cassel to Halys Hornwood and Galbert Glover.

All of them had had similar reactions, eager to shake the President’s hand and state how lovely it was to finally meet the notorious Margaery Tyrell. The only ones who hadn’t seemed so ardent had been Arya -but again, Sansa’s younger sister was hardly ever impressed- and Barbrey Dustin, whose disregard for the Northern royal family seemed to extend itself to their guests.

The Queen Mother had managed to control the enthusiasm Harry had mentioned before, but had been nonetheless courteous and had asked Margaery for a chance to meet for brunch during her stay in the city - and the First Lady had claimed to be honored by the invitation.

The most glorious food was served at dinner, and Sansa found herself sitting between Renly and Roose. The environment was louder than ever, guests from all spots of the long table all but shouting questions and comments at the presidential couple.

And Sansa preparedly didn’t narrow her eyes at the sight in front of her - the sight of Margaery cordially laughing and graciously focused on the conversation Harry insisted on having with her.

He nearly leaned into her, speaking closely to her ear, with the most bewitching smile on his face. Perhaps others, who didn’t know who he truly was, wouldn’t notice it, but Sansa did; he was flirting with her. She wouldn’t be the first or the last woman he would flirt with after marrying the Queen.

He had been a failure at hiding his affairs from Sansa from the beginning, and she had felt all sorts of negative reactions from it; jealousy, pain, yes, but humiliation and anger had been the most prominent.

He betrayed her, and Sansa had fought him for so long about it; until she didn’t anymore. At some point, as the years had passed, she had stopped fighting it, and their drifts and crises had ceased somewhere along the way as well.

But he had never flirted with another woman in front of her, or -that she knew- in front of anyone who wasn’t a part of his unpleasant but discreet companions and Sansa felt like throwing her drink in his face at that moment.

Suddenly she remembered that Margaery’s very husband was right next to her, and Sansa impulsively turned her head to him, but Renly didn’t seem to mind or even notice them, and took Sansa’s brisk movement as a desire to talk.

Which was how she engaged herself in a conversation with the President until dessert was served.

Afterwards, they would still have a few hours to socialize before tea time, and then the dinner would fall to its end. Sansa couldn’t wait for it to be over, which was unusual.

As a child, Sansa had been by far the most enthusiastic and dreamy princess possible. As a teenager, too, but the tragedies that led her to become queen had tarnished a lot of her passion for the system she had been born into.

But still, in situations like these, events like these, not all that serious, when she didn’t have to remember all her losses, and all the sacrifices and impossible choices she’d had to make as queen before, well, she liked these moments. She felt like she was in her element, discussing matters with politicians and exercising her diplomacy.

She was not feeling like that today, though, which was why she sat heavily next to Arya.

“Are you enjoying your evening?”

Grey eyes were hard. “You told me it would be an _informal_ dinner,” she complained through her teeth.

Sansa bit away a laugh, “And did you not notice the dress you were sent did not match the concept of an informal occasion?”

She referred to the elegant dark blue gown Arya wore.

The princess rolled her eyes. “All dresses look the same to me.”

Sansa chuckled. A silent moment lasted a few seconds before Arya said, “Men simply don’t respect women, do they? Not even a queen.”

Sansa’s eyes remained at a random point of the room - she knew exactly where Arya was staring at and refused to see it.

Because she knew Harry hadn’t left Margaery alone, not even after dessert. At some point, Margaery even seemed a bit restless under his attention, and Sansa had found it amusing, but the First Lady was too polite to demonstrate it any further.

“And now he is showing off your children to her as if they were a trophy-”

And with that Sansa was on her feet, leaving Arya behind as she took firm steps towards Harrold and Margaery.

Princess Catelyn was sitting on her father’s lap while her brother was in Margaery’s arms, and Sansa smiled when both of them exclaimed, “Mommy”, as soon as she stood in front of them.

“Your Majesty,” Margaery smiled brightly at her. “Your husband was just introducing me to the,” she looked at Catelyn conspiratorially, “ _Real_ king and queen of the castle.”

Catelyn giggled, and Margaery stroked her fingers through Brandon’s reddish curls.

“Mrs. Tyrell,” Sansa grinned, “Would you like a tour around the castle?”

Margaery’s eyes lighted up at her as she nodded, but Harry was quicker, “As a matter of fact she does. I was just going to show her around.”

Sansa’s grin turned to stone. “Darling, I think I will do it myself. My cousin Robert was only now telling me how he would like to discuss with you some matters regarding the Vale.”

For a split second, Harry’s expression resembled something like a protest - but it didn’t last. Not when Sansa had _that_ look on her face.

That look she only ever shot at her friends or family members when she absolutely had to. At Arya a few times, at her cousin Jon once... and to Harrold, more and more as the years went by.

And after he had spent over an hour straight out flirting with another woman in her presence, she reserved her right to throw him the look. The hard look that reminded him of who she was, where she stood, and to whom he and any other person who lived in the North had pledged obedience from the moment that crown had been put on her head.

Only to have him shoot her _his_ look; the insolent but still silent one that let her know he understood.

She nodded at Margaery, smiling, and the First Lady stood up from her seat, gently settling Prince Brandon on her chair, and followed the Queen.

Sansa could feel eyes from all over the room as she and Mrs. Tyrell addressed the exit.

“How do you feel about Winterfell?”, Sansa inquired as they walked through the large corridors that would be empty if it weren’t for a few guards here and there.

“I find it even more beautiful than what I had seen in pictures, ma’am,” Margaery answered. They were only almost side by side; Sansa kept herself a couple of steps ahead of her. “I ought to come here by the end of the year as well, though. It’s always been one of my dreams, to spend the winter in the North. In Highgarden we don’t have snow.”

“I’m aware.” Sansa stopped her pace, and Margaery did the same with an expectant look in her eyes. “Where would you like to go first? The Throne room? The picture gallery?”

“You have lived here all your life, haven’t you?”, Margaery asked instead.

“I have.”

The brunette smiled. “Take me to where you liked to spend time the most back when you were a child.”

Sansa blinked. Normally the tour she offered her guests followed a similar order to what she had suggested, as the visitors would always be eager to meet the spaces they often saw on television, the ones that displayed what royalty represented at its best.

“Well, there are a number of places I enjoyed spending time in my childhood.”

Margaery smiled even wider. “Show me all of them, then. I’m in no hurry.”

The first place Sansa escorted her to was the study room.

“If you pay attention to it, you will see that we have books and educational material aimed at children and teenagers of all ages. That’s because all of us used to study here. Me, Princess Arya, my cousin, and my brothers.”

At the word _brothers,_ Sansa gazed at Margaery discreetly, trying to catch a reaction. But the First Lady made no mention of it, merely looked around the spacious room curiously. 

“Not at the same time, I suppose,” she said, touching the wooden material of one of the desks.

“Oh, no. Maester Luwin and the professionals that worked for him organized our schedules. We did do our homework together sometimes, though.”

It was so easy to recall those moments where she was inside that room. Six desks, one for each one of them. The year when they were all there, together, had been when Rickon turned seven, and Maester Luwin began to give him homework. Robb and Jon were eighteen. The following year, they no longer studied, so they weren’t all together anymore.

“And what was your favorite subject?” Margaery was examining the infinite bookshelves.

Sansa snorted. “Our education did not consist of what people like you are familiar with.”

Margaery spun around to face her, her eyes amused.

“We only learned what was dignified to princes and princesses. A great deal of history and geography. A lot of focus on understanding different political systems and the history of our monarchy.”

“That’s interesting,” Margaery sat on a chair. _Bran’s chair._ “I liked history too. Literature and philosophy were also two of my favorites.”

“What about math? From what I’ve heard this one is not popular with children.”

Margaery looked pensive. “There were things I liked about math. Resolving equations that seemed impossible at first glance. Following specific steps to find a solution, always the same rules that might change their order according to what problem one is facing,” she gazed at the Queen. “Even as a student, I was interested in subjective matters. I liked to understand people, important figures that changed the world, their motives, ambitions, and weaknesses. But math had its appeal.”

Sansa took the seat that had once belonged to her and now belonged to her daughter. “I remember when my brother Bran asked our mother if further knowledge wouldn’t be useful to members of the royal family, as, in the future, we would always find ourselves engaged in conversations with politicians and important figures like the ones you mentioned. My mother said that in our position the knowledge of how to keep our mouth shut with these people was the most valuable.”

Margaery let out a free giggle that sounded like youth, and Sansa found herself chuckling in return.

Without thinking it through, Sansa said, “I believe you were fond of languages too.”

“Pardon?”

Sansa pressed her lips, wondering if that course of conversation had been the right one to take. “Considering your fluency in High Valyrian as a determinant factor in the success of your tour around Essos.”

Margaery smiled humbly, even as a certain sparkle appeared in her eyes. “Perhaps. I’m very proud of it, but I’m afraid it’s only impressive with most people.”

“What do you mean?”

“In Meeren, I had the chance to meet Queen Daenerys.”

Sansa let out a small laugh. “I can only imagine your knowledge of High Valyrian was not irresistible to Daenerys.”

Margaery rolled her eyes, but with a smile on her face. “High Valyrian. Dothraki. Old Ghiscari. She speaks all of those, perfectly.”

“Her closest companion is Missandei of Naath, a well-known polyglot.”

Margaery nodded. “I met her.” Then she said it with a particularly conspiratory tone. “I also met your cousin Jon while I was there.”

Sansa frowned at the way she told her that. She tried to recognize in her features a resemblance of the hesitation, curiosity, or judgment most people used to have when they mentioned Jon to Sansa.

“I met Jon and his wife, I mean,” she kept on that tone that made it sound like she was about to reveal something in particular.

_His wildling wife,_ Sansa tried to guess what was in Margaery’s mind. _The wildling he married through a union_ you _forbade. You tried to forbid it, to the point where he gave up on his title and privileges and moved to Essos only to have his aunt, another queen who is just so much more of a progressivist and a benevolent than you are -than I am allowed to be, she would always try and fail to say-, permit it._

She was sure that was what Margaery was thinking, but instead, “And as you know, his wife is fluent in Old Tongue. And, yes - Daenerys is now learning Old Tongue as well! A _fifth_ language! What is she trying to achieve?”

She seemed so over-the-top frustrated, Sansa couldn’t help but laugh all over again. Also in relief, that the mention of her cousin and his wife didn’t follow the direction she feared.

When she felt the weight of Margaery’s eyes on her, Sansa went to her feet. “Shall we?”

“Listen,” the Queen said as soon as they stepped foot outside the castle. “If you feel cold, inform me and I will send someone to bring you a shawl.”

Margaery stared at her in comical indignation. “We are in June!”

Sansa shrugged even as she smirked. “It will get dark in an hour if I’m not mistaken. Even our summer evenings will have southerners like you get a taste of what real low temperatures feel like, and I don’t like my guests chattering their teeth while I show them my ancestral home.”

Margaery giggled, again, and protested, “You will find that this southern might be tougher than many Northerners.”

Sansa sent her a mocking glance. “I highly doubt that.”

“You should have seen Renly and I strolling through the fish market in White Harbor last night, then. He wore a nice suit and I wore a dress even more comfortable than this one,” she illustrated, glancing down at her own exposed arms. “While all those Northerns around us looked twice their sizes covered in all those layers of clothing.”

_Do you ever wear anything uncomfortable?_ Sansa wondered.

“Citizens of White Harbor are the least Northerns of the North, they should not be used as a parameter,” she joked but regretted almost immediately. She should not make jokes like that one; she was the queen. If the wrong person heard her saying such a thing, it could end up on the news and she would have shaken the support of one of the major Northern cities.

She threw a discreet glance at Margaery, who reacted to her comment with a mere chuckle. Before asking, “Where are we going now?”

Irrationally, Sansa felt so tempted to dismiss her with a smirk, telling her to wait until they got there. But she shouldn’t. “The heart tree. If you want to, of course.” She had read somewhere that Margaery prayed for the Seven, and she did not wish to make her uncomfortable.

But Margaery simply smiled more than she had the whole night while nodding eagerly.

“If it’s your desire, we can stop by the sept my father built for my mother,” she wanted to be sure.

Margaery shook her head rapidly. “I’m surrounded by septs all the time, I’ve grown tired of them.”

Sansa raised her eyebrows. “Worshippers hardly ever admit to being tired of their sacred buildings.”

Margaery shrugged. “I worship the Seven because I must. It’s expected of me, but I put little heart or faith in my prayers. When I pray.”

Her confession surprised Sansa, almost as much as it relieved her. “I feel the same way as you do.”

Only to, again, silently curse herself for saying too much. She was the Queen in the North,she represented the old gods on Earth. She could not let anyone know about her lack of enthusiasm when it came to them.

But once again Margaery didn’t seem startled by the content of Sansa’s slip, sending her a sympathetic look instead. “I believe it must be even harder for you. As you were raised to worship both the old gods and the new, due to the Queen Mother’s faith.”

“Yes. When I was a child I was a firm believer, though.”

_Before Bran and Rickon died and I began to question whether or not there was anything to believe in._

She watched the look on Margaery’s face as they entered the godswood, the three acres of forest with a weirwood in its center. She seemed impressed as they walked by the sentinel, chestnut, and oak trees, among others. Above them, they knew the sky was painted pink and orange, but inside the wood, they could barely see it and it was nearly dark.

When Sansa saw the small, dark pond she smiled when discerning two forms playing around it.

“Looks like we have company.”

Margaery widened her eyes, and Sansa couldn’t know whether it was because she was now facing the weirwood heart tree, its melancholic white face with red eyes staring back at them, or because of the sight of the two gigantic Northern hounds that barked when seeing them.

Probably the hounds, since Margaery jumped.

“Don’t worry,” Sansa chuckled, touching her arm and feeling its warmth. “They only tease.”

They approached her, and Margaery tentatively stroked behind the ears of the grey colored one. “This one is mine,” Sansa revealed. “Her name is Jonquil. She was Lady’s puppy. Lady was my best friend growing up.”

Margaery smiled and turned her attention to the black-furred dog. “And this one is Ice. The son of Nymeria, Arya’s late dog.”

Sansa guided Margaery toward a bench she had ordered to have put on that location after she’d become queen, on the opposite side of the mossy stone her father used to sit on.

“Can you believe Arya wanted to name him Stranger?”

“The face of death?” Margaery laughed, caressing Ice’s neck before both he and Jonquil left them alone.

“Yes, for the love of the Gods. It was the first of many times I forbid Arya from doing something.”

Margaery giggled. “Gods, that reminds me of the main reason that had me rejecting my childhood dream of becoming a queen.”

“You had such a dream?”, Sansa asked with a smile; needless because, well, which little girl wouldn’t have that dream?

Perhaps only Arya. Sansa had dreamed of becoming a queen, perhaps by marrying an Essosi king. A dream that revealed itself not so colorful or cheerful once it became true.

“Of course! Being the most powerful and loved woman in the world. Wearing the most spectacular gowns, having to walk on the streets with security because people would not control themselves, wanting to touch you, wanting to talk to you. Holding the power to make a difference in the world. It was all I wanted when I was a child.”

“Until you realized you did not have to be a queen to have all of this?”

_You have all of this now._

“It was a factor,” Margaery simpered. “But also, this idea of prohibiting. I can’t imagine how I would feel if one of my brothers were king and he forbade me from doing what I wanted, from marrying whom I wanted,” she shook her head. “And my brothers are even more stubborn than I am. If I were a queen and told them what they should do or not,” she giggled. “I think they would spit on my feet.”

Sansa didn’t smile this time around. Her words had been too close to heart now.

Margaery noticed. “I’m sorry, should I not have said that?”, she covered Sansa’s hand with her own.

“It’s quite alright,” Sansa assured her, staring at the other woman’s fingers on top of hers.

No one should touch the Queen without permission.

Still, it felt soon when Margaery drew her hand back.

“You studied Psychology at the University of the Citadel, didn’t you?”, she changed the subject, and Margaery smiled when she nodded.

“Yes. And I worked in the field for eight years, until Renly and I started his campaign for the presidency.”

“And how did you two meet?”

“In the Highgarden Equestrian Club,” Margaery bit her lip, “Almost… twelve years ago.”

Sansa crooked her head. “Renly moved to Highgarden for college, didn’t he?”, at Margaery’s affirmation, she continued. “I reckon he enjoyed it. Never went back to the Stormlands… is now _president_ of your country.”

Margaery shrugged. “He has an incredible connection to the Reach. He went to boarding school in Old Oak during all of his adolescence and his sister-in-law’s uncle is the mayor of Brightwater Keep.”

“I have nothing but admiration towards your husband and the politician he is,” Sansa affirmed. “But I must admit I was astounded by the amount of support he was given during his campaign by the population and, of course, his unprecedented win against men who were born in the Reach,” she declared honestly. “Especially considering it was his first candidature.”

“Well, his opponents certainly helped. Randyll Tarly has given such abominable declarations during his years in the army and is just a narrow man. Orton Merrywheater is a good person but does not come close to having the political strength one is needed to run for president. Or any strength at all.”

“Still, it shocks me how the people would choose a foreigner as their leader,” Sansa insisted.

Margaery smirked. “It’s only expected, you are the daughter of a dynasty.” She pressed her lips. “I mean no offense, but it is somewhat strange to me, the idea of a head of state not being legally elected by the majority of the citizens.”

Sansa didn’t try and argue. “I would say this has become a more and more common opinion as the years go by.”

Margaery sent her a compassionate look. “Of course, the North is a fortunate monarchy. Your father was an honorable king and you…”, she looked at Sansa up and down. “I feel happy about the fact that the little Northern girls have a woman like you to look up to.”

“Being a woman in a position of power and embodying the Northern state but still having to bend over backwards to please and appease several male counselors, advisers, politicians...,” Margaery continued as she narrowed her eyes. “Relatives. I know what a burden it must be, and your strength to deal with all of that awes me.”

“You still present yourself as a firm, balanced queen. One of the things I admire the most about you is how you make your presence strong and commanding without losing your tenderness and your femininity, even when I know these must cost you credibility among the men I’ve just mentioned. But to most women, those, along with your knowledge and hard work, make you relatable and an inspiration. Certainly, it does to me and my daughter.”

Sansa felt speechless as she managed a sheepish smile because no one had ever put that into such words. She had been in the receiving ending of so many compliments ever since she was born, and it had only escalated after she was crowned.

But no one had ever acknowledged the frequent crossroads Sansa often found herself in, how she tried her best to deal with the number of men who every day seemed to try and grasp a little bit more of her.

And no one had certainly ever brought up the possibility of Sansa being a role model for girls everywhere, and the sole idea of it thrilled her. Because as a child she had not had a female ruler to look up to, and when, at the age of twenty, she became the first in line to the throne, she had wished for a figurehead that reassembled herself, one where she could find influence and motivation in. 

And now all those little girls had one. Her.

She had never stopped to think about it, but Margaery revealed it to her so effortlessly.

“Thank you, Mrs. Tyrell,” she smiled coyly. “Your words mean a lot.”

Margaery crooked her head as she smiled, searching Sansa’s eyes. For a moment they didn’t say anything.

Only when Sansa watched the way Margaery almost discreetly looked around them she noticed how much darker it had gotten.

“Are you frightened?”, she teased.

“No,” Margaery responded immediately. “But out of curiosity, is there anywhere else you would like to take me to?”

Sansa laughed and stood up. “There is. Only I think it might frighten you even more.”

Margaery followed her and hooked her left arm into Sansa’s right one. “Where?”

Sansa playfully snorted. “Don’t be impatient,” she said as she guided them through the wood.

They had just passed the north gate when she pondered, “If you are truly afraid of the dark then perhaps we shouldn’t-”

“I am not afraid of the dark!”, Margaery chuckled, squeezing Sansa’s arm.

Sansa touched the ironwood that would lead them to their destination. “Are you sure?”

By now Margaery already had an idea of where they would go, she believed; the crypt of Winterfell was a historical place.

Indeed, “I’m with the Queen in the North. Is there anyone who could keep me safer?”

Sansa sent her a small smile and opened the door. She did not like when people who weren’t a part of her family went down the crypt - to most of the Winterfell guests, it seemed like visiting the location was more of a fun adventure, rather than being in the presence of the royal family’s ancestors.

Still, she gave Margaery the benefit of the doubt.

“All the Starks are buried here, but the statues are usually only made for kings or queens.”

They left the spiral stairs on the level where Sansa’s recent family had been buried.

“This is my father,” she indicated the large statue that represented King Eddard. His features were grave under the candlelight; the only source of luminosity down the crypt.

Margaery let go of Sansa’s arm, her eyes curious as she analysed the sculpture. “It was spectacularly done.”

“It was. Here you can see my grandfather, King Rickard. And between them,”

“Princess Lyanna,” Margaery completed, examining the statue of Sansa’s aunt. “She is an exception of the rule, I see.”

“Yes. My father was very attached to her. And she died so young and left him a nephew to raise. I think that spurred him even further, and he ordered the statue only a year after he was crowned.”

Margaery touched Lyanna’s hand. “I still remember the scandal, when that letter from your father was criminally intercepted.”

“Don’t tell me about it,” Sansa shook her head. “That was absurd. How can journalists get access to a letter handwritten by the King himself? That’s why I strictly only send letters about trivial subjects.”

Margaery laughed, “You are not afraid of your phone calls getting intercepted and secretly recorded?”

“I have been assured that that’s nearly impossible. More unlikely than what happened to the letter, certainly.”

Sansa was six when it had happened. When journalists leaked to the world the content of a letter sent by her father to his friend Howland Reed; a letter that revealed to the public -and Sansa, her siblings, and her cousin- that Lyanna’s son, Jon, the one she had died giving birth to, the one Sansa had as a brother, was not the son of some random man as believed, but the son of the late Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.

The newspapers had called the exposure “Jongate”. The memories of it alone were enough to have Sansa mistrust mail in general, never sharing confidential information in any of the letters she’d ever sent.

Little did she know that would only be the first of the scandals her family would go through.

“Not wanting to turn this into a morbid conversation, even considering where we are standing. But your statue will be here, right?”, Margaery asked, pointing at the spot next to her father.

Sansa hesitated. “Well, it should. But I’m not sure.”

Margaery looked confused. “Why?”

The answer left Sansa before she was certain if she wanted to share it. “All kings should have statues.”

She was able to see the realization covering Margaery’s eyes.

“You are thinking about having a statue made for your brother.”

Sansa felt herself blushing because, well, she was not sure if she should have said that to Margaery. When she had brought up to her advisors, her desire of having a Robb statue done once he died, she had received a resounding _no._ Thankfully -and hopefully- there were still many years to come before the decision would have to be faced.

“Well, he was a king. For one year.”

Margaery nodded slowly, watching Sansa carefully. She seemed almost uncertain about her next words. “I did not tell you before but… even at twenty-three I still had a little girl inside of me. One that daydreamed about being a queen. Not seriously, not a goal, not even an earnest desire. Merely a sparkle, a reminder of childhood dreams. Those were crushed when I saw what happened to you. What made you a queen.”

Sansa’s voice was severe. “Well, this achievement of mine did not come without its unfortunates.”

She wasn’t even born when her uncle Brandon died and her father became the heir to the throne.

But she was seventeen when her father died. Eighteen when Robb became King. Nineteen when he abdicated - Jeyne Westerling, the woman he had fallen madly in love with, was divorced. Between the crown and a woman, he had made his choice.

Her youngest uncle -the only surviving child of King Rickard-, Prince Benjen, would serve as regent until Bran came of age.

She was twenty when Bran and Rickon’s plane crashed.

And twenty-one when the crown was put on her head.

Margaery’s hands were clasping together when she asked, once again tentatively. “I’ve always wanted to know… and I beg you not to judge my question, as I won’t judge your answer. But do you sometimes find yourself enjoying the position you are in? Despite the circumstances.”

Sansa wouldn’t have answered it, in another situation. Dialoguing with anyone else. But she could see the genuine wonder in Margaery’s eyes. She couldn’t understand why she felt so compelled to give her an honest response. Still,

“Only sometimes, as you said. It’s a privilege, you won’t see me denying it. I won’t tell you the nice parts of being a queen, since I’m sure it lives in anyone’s imagination. And yes, there are moments where I find myself… _blessed_.”

She loathed herself for saying that last word, and she could only hope for Margaery’s sincerity regarding her promise of non-judgment.

“But there are _plenty_ of moments where I dislike it. And I think with your six months closely observing the reality of one who serves as chief of state, you can imagine some of those moments.”

Margaery hummed. “Forgive me, Your Majesty… but I’m sure the situations are widely different. Renly’s eldest brother most definitely married a woman some would call the wrong woman, but that was not a decision that changed Renly’s life, especially since Robert and Cersei Lannister were _allowed_ to get divorced. And his job certainly affects his family’s life, but incomparable to how your role affects yours.”

Sansa bit her lip, taking Margaery’s words in. And smiled like a defeat, “You are right. My burdens are different from anyone else’s. Being queen cost me my family.”

She’d put into rather harsh words, and Margaery raised her eyebrows in surprise.

Sansa sighed. “Robb is exiled in Riverrun and I haven’t seen him in thirteen years. My mother and Arya have been allowed discreet visits to him, but it would be inappropriate for the Queen in the North to do so.”

When Bran and Rickon died, she had become the first in line and since then hadn’t had the opportunity to mourn with him. To cry on his shoulder like she used to, to assure him that Bran had forgiven him. That she would forgive him, someday.

“That’s absurd. He is your brother.”

Sansa let out a miserable chuckle-like sound and sat on a small stone bench.

“And Jon rarely speaks to me.”

“Because you weren’t permitted to allow him a marriage with a wildling woman.”

Margaery stood in front of her.

“Did he say anything to you? About me?”

She shook her head.

“He is wrong. For distancing himself from you. You are his family. The entire public was aware of the effort you put into trying to fight Cabinet and the law imposed by the religious.”

She had put a tremendous amount of effort indeed. She had questioned the Royal Marriage Act. She had argued with the parliament, she had exposed and used the fact that seven out of the twenty-one members of Cabinet were divorced - therefore, also breaking the normative. She had done all she could because she had promised her cousin.

Before opening her eyes to the promises she could not keep; realizing her decisions were limited and her duty must come first.

“That’s quite a sacrifice, giving up on a crown, title, and privileges. If I had been born into the same context they did, I’m not sure if I would have done the same,” Margaery said.

“Not even for _love?”_ , Sansa managed a mocking tone.

“Well, I won’t say I judge them. They were princes, they would have to marry someday. I can’t imagine what living in a loveless marriage must be like. So I presume they seized the opportunity fate gave them.”

Sansa went to her feet. She stopped, facing her aunt’s statue. Her face was so sad. Why had her father requested such a sorrowful image of his sister? She would do it differently for Robb.

“A loveless marriage. I pray you never find out what it feels like.”

When she spun around, the resemblance of surprise was still present on Margaery’s features.

She cleared her throat. “Your Majesty, about before, with your husband. I didn’t quite know what to-”

“Don’t worry. His manners with you were nothing compared to all that I have been dealing with for years.”

Understanding filled Margaery’s eyes. “The media makes it seem like you two are in love.”

“Thankfully,” Sansa declared. “One less thing I need to deal with.”

“And has there ever been love?”, Margaery asked softly, after a moment of silence.

“Perhaps it did so, in the beginning. At least he seemed to love me.”

They were happy in the first couple of years, Sansa couldn’t deny it. “But I think his enchantment drifted away with time. The idea of living in Winterfell instead of the modern apartment he had wished for, of giving up on his equestrian competitions and his piloting classes to go on royal tours with me,” Sansa paced in small circles. “The idea of bending the knee. Of our children not inheriting his name.”

“So Lord Harrold loathes the fact that he lives the life of every married woman in the world?”

Blue eyes snapped at Margaery, a hint of a smile on Sansa’s lips. Once again, Margaery had put into words so easily; had her make sense of something so plain and evident.

Sansa allowed herself a small laugh. “I reckon a man would rather live commonly and unprivileged before obeying his wife.”

Margaery didn’t laugh at all, though. Merely shook her head slightly, staring at Sansa. “How can one be so blind regarding their own luck?”

Sansa felt a blush creep up her neck. She was talking about Harry’s privilege of being married to a queen. Certainly.

But then Margaery was closer. “But what I truly wanted to know was if _you_ have ever loved him.”

Her eyes bored into Sansa’s in a nearly captivating way. Her voice tone was low and the light made her skin golden.

“Yes,” Sansa whispered. “When I met him… I loved him in an exciting, relieving way.”

“Relieving?”

She hadn’t even noticed what she’d said.

“Why did loving him make you feel relieved?”

She had shared information she should not have shared with Margaery that night. From trivial inappropriate comments to questions of her heart; but she would not share that. What no one knew, except herself.

No one knew about Jeyne Poole. Well, many people knew about her - she was the best friend Sansa had ever had. To this day.

But no one knew about how, as they grew up, Sansa would stare at Jeyne’s lips when she wasn’t aware of it. No one knew about the clench in Sansa’s heart whenever Jeyne fancied a new boy. No one knew about the need Sansa had developed; the need to hold her hand.

No one knew about that, not even Jeyne.

She had felt an attraction towards Jeyne, during her adolescence. And she had been terrified of it. Women should not feel attraction to one another; princesses most definitely shouldn’t.

Her feelings for Jeyne had been confusing, strange and at some point, painful. More about Sansa’s feelings about herself than the ones about her friend.

Which was why she’d given Robb -that day, King Robb- the idea of sending Jeyne to King’s Landing, so she could meet Podrick Payne, a boy she had been corresponding with and who lived in the Crowlands; a boy she was hopelessly in love with.

He did. Jeyne had thanked Sansa hundreds of times. Sansa had cried when she’d left - for her best friend, and for the _girl_ she wanted; and for herself.

But the distance had had its intended effects. Eventually, quicker than expected, Jeyne had unoccupied Sansa’s heart. They would still talk through the phone every week and saw each other twice a year, but it came to a moment where Sansa had mercifully stopped feeling those sensations that had hunted her during her teenage years. Especially after she’d met Harry.

However, the memory of what she’d felt for her, for a woman, still made her uneasy. And uncommonly, differently uneasy as she stood under Margaery’s eyes.

Margaery, who had the same petit figure as Jeyne did, but a little taller; but not taller than Sansa.

Margaery, who was so much prettier than Jeyne had ever been. Margaery, who had made Sansa giggle earnestly, and who had, in one evening, made Sansa understand and realize a couple of things she hadn’t had on her own.

Margaery, who could apparently make Sansa talk about any subject, who had heard Sansa say things no one else had, but perhaps hadn’t even noticed it.

Margaery, who had caused Sansa to flee from a dinner with the most important politicians in the country; and who still hadn’t let Sansa feel the need to go back.

Sansa shivered.

Margaery smirked. “Cold?” She rubbed her hand up and down Sansa’s arm, for only a second, but enough to send her a small shockwave, and have Sansa widening her eyes and stepping away.

Away from her, and she saw Margaery’s smirk falling into a frown once she did.

No, she didn’t like that. She didn’t like Margaery’s frown. She wanted to see Margaery giggling again.

_Gods._

She swallowed. “I’m sorry,” she smiled shakily. “I just think we should be heading back. The other guests must be wondering where we are.”

She offered her arm to Margaery, and the brunette smiled the most gorgeous smile as enthralling eyes locked on Sansa’s.

_Gods._

Their path was slow and quiet. Sansa didn’t want to lose the warmth of Margaery’s body next to hers, and she didn’t truly wish to come back inside the castle.

And a part of her thought Margaery shared the feeling, as they unconsciously and unintendedly made their way to the glass gardens.

Margaery smiled happily as she looked around the greenhouse, bright eyes seemingly bewitched by their surroundings.

She pulled Sansa by the arm while she examined the flowers.

“What about Princess Arya?”, she asked at some point. “You two seem to get along well.”

“It’s intriguing how the sibling I grew up fighting the most with ends up being the one I’m closest to now.”

“She does sell the image of being a bit of a defiant.”

Sansa snorted. “She was always the one to give father and mother the most painful headache. ‘No, Arya, you cannot wear pants to Uncle Edmure’s wedding. No, Arya, you cannot swear at the Prime Minister because he dozed off during father’s speech. No, Arya, you cannot enter kickboxing competitions. Yes, even if it’s featherweight.’”

Margaery laughed before questioning her, “Didn’t she eventually compete in one of those?”

Sansa shrugged. “We’ve come to acknowledge that our ability to say ‘yes’ from time to time resulted in her ability to accept a ‘no’ now and then.”

“And marriage hasn’t been a point of conflict with her like it has your brother and cousin?”

Sansa took a deep breath. “Yet. She used to date a boy from King’s Landing. He did not come from the right family, or any family at all, and I was painfully aware of the pandemonium that would take place in case she decided to marry him.”

“But when I”, she continued, “Out of _curiosity,_ inquired about her plans regarding the relationship… ‘I will never wed. Men are not trustworthy; they will ultimately betray, disrespect, and try and control you. If your husband does that to you, a queen, just imagine what mine will do to me, a mere HRH.”

“And I imagine you were equally comforted by her rejection towards that particular union as you were shaken by her wish to never get married.”

Sansa sighed. “She turned thirty in April. Some of my advisers have already warned me about the need to find her a partner.”

And at Margaery rolling her eyes, Sansa revealed, “The mere thought of speaking to her about it frightens me.”

Margaery’s semblance fell into an almost concerned look. “It’s not the same situation as Jon’s. You will find a way, and you won’t lose her.”

Her thumb brushed over the skin of Sansa’s wrist, soothingly, and her eyes danced around the redhead’s face, for a moment, before she focused elsewhere.

“I loved those. I’ve always wanted to grow them in my garden.”

Sansa forced her gaze out of Margaery’s face to the winter rose she held.

“Keep it,” Sansa breathed. “So you can remember me.”

_What?_

“Remember today, I mean,” she nearly babbled as she corrected herself. “Remember Winterfell.”

Margaery giggled again, young and free, and held the rose against her heart.

“Your Majesty, I will not need anything to remind me of you. Do not worry about that.”

-

Sansa’s eyes had never been quite able to follow Arya’s sabre fencing training with her master Syrio Forel. The Queen was not a fan of the combat sport, but the Braavosi was eccentric and seemingly fond of alternative ways to train Arya - which included having someone to talk to Arya while they… sword played.

So basically, once in a while, Sansa had to meet Arya in her practice room and talk to her while she and Syrio poked at each other with blades. The goal was apparently to sharpen Arya’s ability to pay attention to many things at once, or something like that.

Sansa usually considered it a boring task, sitting on a chair and speaking over two people dueling in white protective clothing and with their faces behind foils, but today she didn’t mind. There was only so much she wanted to share with Arya.

“I was so prepared to loathe her,” she declared over the clinking of the swords. “Had to fight the urge to roll my eyes every time I heard someone doing as much as mentioning her name. And of course, Harry’s antics before the event did not help.”

“But she changed my mind utterly and completely the moment we stepped out of that dining room. She showed no interest in what people usually do. She asked me to guide her through my favorite places back when we were children. It was good to see someone who recalled the fact that we were once children and that Winterfell is more than the administrative headquarters of the monarch but also a _home,”_ she repeated the words she had already recited to the Queen Mother, Beth Cassel, and Jeyne, through the phone.

“Not to mention she understood me, like many people don’t, and opened my eyes to things I had never seen. And she is so… funny, and warm. I was all set to find that Saturday terribly exhausting but her company had me having fun.”

“At least someone did, then,” Arya’s voice was muffled by her foil.

“We haven’t talked since then.” Almost three days had passed since the dinner Sansa had thrown to welcome the President and the First Lady. “But we have plans to make phone calls every other week and write to each other. Also, it’s not confirmed yet, but they may come back in December. It does not snow in Highgarden, and Margaery is enchanted by the idea of spending the Holidays here. She’s said Winterfell must look even more glorious in winter.”

“What?”, Arya’s exclamation resembled outrage, and Syrio seized the opportunity to hit her.

“Left ear on the sword, right ear on the Queen,” he reprehended.

“Can you leave me alone with my sister for just a second?”, Arya required, and Syrio left the room.

Arya sat next to the redhead, getting rid of her foil and letting Sansa see how her hair was damp from sweat. “I need to talk to you about something serious. About your newly found friend.”

“What is it?”

“Do you know Theon Greyjoy is in town?”, Arya asked, grey eyes probing Sansa’s. Theon was their childhood friend.

“Yes. Harry and I will have lunch with him on Friday.”

Arya took a deep breath. “I met him yesterday at the match between Karhold United and Athletic Blackpool. And he told me he stumbled across Margaery Tyrell and her husband in that fancy restaurant in Winter Town, the Smoking Log.”

“And?”

Arya sighed. “Reportedly she was a bit… out of herself. You know, drinking. And might have said some unpleasant things about Winterfell and her visit. And _you.”_

Sansa chuckled in a huff. “That’s decidedly unlikely. We got along impossibly well.”

Arya shrugged. “You are aware of my opinion on politicians. Ask Theon to meet you here so he can tell you himself, without the deadweight that will be hanging around you two on Friday.”

And just like that, Arya was on her feet, calling Syrio back.

With Arya’s words heavily hammering on her ears, Sansa could no longer find many subjects to talk about to her sister.

  
  


-

  
  


“Your Majesty,” Theon curtsied lazily with his cocky smirk on his lips.

Sansa managed a small giggle, rolling her eyes and pulling him into a hug.

“I’ve missed you, Theon.”

“So have I.”

“Please sit,” Sansa requested, and Theon took the same seat Roose Bolton had taken four days before.

“I apologize for asking you to come to see me on such short notice.”

“You know I’m always happy to see you.” There was a gleam covering his always amused eyes. “Although I must admit to being curious about why you’d require my attendance today if we have a scheduled meeting on Friday.”

“There is a specific matter I would like to discuss with you in private.”

Theon grinned conspiratorially. “Away from your husband? You intrigue me, Your Majesty.”

Sansa took a deep breath, her hands folded over her lap. “My sister told me you saw the First Lady at dinner recently.”

Theon’s smile faltered. “Indeed.”

Sansa’s heart felt heavier at how his expression fell; an indicator of her worst fears, a confirmation of what she’d spent almost twenty-four hours thinking about, ever since Arya’s revelation.

“And you heard her saying a few things?”

Theon sighed and rubbed the back of his neck like he did when he was uncomfortable. “Sansa, I-”

“Theon.” Her voice was fortunately firm. “I had a very pleasant time with Mrs. Tyrell on Saturday. To the point where I am looking forward to seeing her again. I need to know if I’m being a fool for feeling this way.”

_Feeling this way._

“Keep in mind I was sitting tables away from her-”

“I understand.”

Theon’s eyes scanned her face before he seemed to have gathered the strength to say what he said next. 

“She said Winterfell was a grey city and that the great majority of its citizens and the politicians in general have the same mentality as those in the most remote and underdeveloped cities in Slaver’s Bay. She said that Winterfell Castle’s only redeeming quality was the nature surrounding it and the memories and warmth of a once happy family; other than that, its architecture resembles one of a forsaken museum that presents itself as an outdated intrusion in the modern world, much like the Northern monarchy.”

Sansa’s throat burnt as she swallowed. “And what else?”

Theon closed his eyes and stroked back his dark hair. “She said that… It’s sad that such a competent, kind, and well-prepared head of state turned a blind eye to the North’s reactionary measures that affected the entire population only to open up to its effects when they reached the limits of her own family. That the North has a generous and brilliant leader but that the road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

He inhaled slowly, and Sansa knew he would be done soon.

“And how could one feel anything but sympathetic to Mance Rayder’s cause when they are subjected to a system that forces the royal family to kick out one of its members when he dares to marry a wildling?”

“Is that all?” Sansa wondered if Theon was able to hear the weak sound that delivered those words.

Because she certainly didn’t hear his answer as her ears were buzzing and her mind quietly yet desperately tried to gather why and how Margaery could have said all of that.

And she replayed in her head, recalled all the small lies that came from Margaery’s mouth that day, the ones that had Sansa’s heart in her hands.

_Awe-inspiring, knowledgeable, firm, strong, tender, feminine, inspiration to young girls, everyone saw what you tried to do for Jon, how could Harry not realize how lucky he is, I won't forget you._

No, Margaery hadn’t truly lied to her; had merely chosen the ever so calculated words to hide the truth - the other part of what she thought of Sansa.

She hadn’t told any lies. Yet, that entire hour with her now felt like an illusion.

She vaguely heard the sound of her name coming from Theon. The blurred image of his face had her recognize the sheet of tears that covered her eyes.

She was quick to clean them. She could not allow herself to shed a tear for Margaery Tyrell.

And she didn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> So this didn’t end well 💀 but I'll do my best to try and post the second and final part as soon as I can! Originally this was supposed to be a one-shot, but it ended up a bit too long in my opinion.
> 
> Anyway, please leave kudos if you liked it and comment your thoughts?


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